MY DIRTY SECRET

I have a secret, a dirty secret.... a filthy secret, one that embarrasses the Hell out of me.

Mich is a smoker.

A dare when I was all of ten left me with an addiction that refuses to be beaten. I've quit many times over the years, only to find myself with another of those damned coffin nails smouldering in between my fingers. I don't smoke in the house, in the vehicles, in front of children, and very rarely in public settings....but I smoke.

I'm legally prohibited from growing my own tobacco; I recall a court case back in the 90's in Victoria where a fella with 50 tobacco plants received more time than the fella with 400 pot plants....the government doesn't like competition, I guess. As I can't grow my own tobacco, legally, I'm obligated to purchase it from "official" sources, with the Canadian government the only licenced distributor. If a pack of 20 cigarettes costs $10, more than $5 of it is federal and provincial taxes. In this instance, the government is profiteering from my addiction as well as punishing me financially for it. OK, perhaps the expense is meant to be a deterrent, but it doesn't work that way in real life. Reservation cigarettes and smuggled smokes end up being pursued as smokers desperately try to cut the cost and expense of the brown weed they're addicted to. High taxes has led to dishonest business practices, outright, when it comes to tobacco sales.

The federal government wants tobacco companies to pay for the health care costs associated with the use of their products... but not the manufacturers of alcohol products...; and why it is that the tax monies I pay on each package isn't going into health care is a good question. The tax monies generated from cigarette sales goes into general revenue, which means that the rest of Canada is profiting from my addiction, too. All of that will be forgotten if I develop a smoking-related illness, of course, because health care is so costly and no one thought to put aside tobacco revenues to care for the addicts paying them, like me. Tobacco purchases could easily be linked to a health care card number, and the taxes paid on tobacco products routed to a health care kitty instead of general revenue; instead, 1 in four Canadians pay $5+ day more in taxes to support a government-sanctioned addiction, only to be abandoned and vilified when resulting health issues arrive. A street addict is afforded more help to kick addiction issues than a smoker is, and street addicts aren't using legal substances like a smoker does....they don't contribute to the system in general, but they qualify for more help and assistance in getting "clean". A street addict is often viewed as a victim, but I've never heard of a smoker being described as such. Smokers are as much victims as any other addict is, but because we are not impaired by our addiction, we aren't viewed as such.

The government wants it ALL ways: to tax smokers to the poorhouse, deny them equal footing with other addicts as regards treatment options, fine the tobacco companies for the health care costs associated with smoking (perhaps because big tobacco companies earn more money than the government? : "You have more, YOU pay for it!" ), and retain a firm grip on distribution by being the ONLY licenced distributor . The government has, literally, a monopoly on tobacco addiction in this country, yet cries foul about all that it entails.

A pack a day = $5 in tax revenue

Multiply by 365 days in a year = $1825 tax dollars generated

Multiply by 50 years = $91,250 tax dollars generated

A fifty year smoking addiction will net the government almost $100,000, none of which goes into health care for the addict. The government complains bitterly about the cost of health care for smokers' issues, yet continues to distribute the addictive product. Tobacco is one of THE most addictive substances known to man, but it's one that's licenced and distributed by our own government. It's playing both sides of the fence, and makes little sense, in that light.

I didn't ask to be an addict, and the issues of addiction involving tobacco weren't as known in the 60's and 70's as they are today. All I knew as a ten year old kid was that it was supposed to be cool, many of the adults I knew smoked in those days: it was a grown up thing to do. Now it's socially unacceptable to smoke, so those with the addiction are forced into a higher level of discretion. It takes a lot of people by surprise to find out that there's a pack of cigarettes sitting inside of a little wooden box by the back door: they're invariably shocked and horrified when they find out that those are MY cigarettes in that box. Apparently I don't "look" like a smoker... whatever the Hell that's supposed to mean.

OK, I smoke....and I keep trying to quit and make it stick, one of these times it WILL. In the meantime, I'm appalled and angered by a government that behaves no better than a 4 year old bully in a sandbox when it comes to the subject of tobacco, tobacco sales, addiction, and health care costs; they want their cake and to eat it too. Since it's discovery, tobacco has been in and out of fashion, but never completely removed from our society: so it will continue to do, we need to find a more compassionate and cohesive way of addressing the addiction it creates if we're to ever see it leave the fringes of society some day in the future.

Yes, I have an opinion....

I'm incredibly opinionated. Actually, that's a bit of an understatement.

First of all, feel sorry for my husband, for he owns the ears that are most often subjected to my vocalizations of opinion. If anyone is likely to know what my opinion on something is, it's him, & I'm not so sure he considers that an honour.

The worst part of being opinionated is that it's rare anyone else shares an opinion with you. Being opinionated also means having a penchant for argument & debate, because that's often what comes of defending one's opinion. Again, pity my husband, because he's often the one to bail me out of such a debate.

Being opinionated leads to loneliness. No one really wants you around, because it's a known fact that you're likely to volunteer your view-point, even if it's considered a form of suicide.

When I was in college, it didn't long before instructors and professors learned to dread seeing my hand raised to ask a question during a lecture. My classmates considered this a form of entertainment, even if the instructors didn't. At least it was obvious I'd done my homework, although I've no doubt a few instructors wished I hadn't.

Being opinionated also means being intolerant. I admit to having difficulty being around those lacking in education &/or life experience, because they don't tend to have unique opinions of their own: they're no fun to talk to, don't challenge me, or make me think. They sort of remind me of the colour beige: boring, non-descript, and bland.

Behind closed doors, my husband can be equally opinionated. We've engaged in some incredibly intricate conversations based on differing view points. He has one talent that I do not share: he can 'shut it off' at will, & tends to do so when there's others around. No one has ever been subjected to the diversity of his opinions unless having requested the privilege. He's not unaware of how favourably this trait of his is viewed by others.

Being opinionated can mean being volunteered to speak for a group, even if you don't feel like it. Those around you figure you're the most capable of voicing THEIR opinions, when you're area of expertise lies in merely voicing your own; others don't seem to differentiate between those distinctions.

Hubby will try to save me embarrassment and nudge me to get me off of a tangent; age has tempered my willingness to speak out as I once did, too.

Yea, I'm incredibly opinionated, to the point that it could be considered a handicap. It doesn't matter if it's in verbal or written form, I have to be careful of what I say, when, where, and to whom, or re-live some of my less-than-fond memories of times past.

Then again, now that I'm older, it's expected that I'll have an opinion: the trick, now, is finding those that deserve to hear it.

Mich's Mumbles © 2011

The Great absinthe experiment: Part III , the final chapter

Continued from PART II

A second drink in hand, sitting at my computer desk, I felt gypped. Sure, I had a buzz on, but nothing to brag about, let alone claim surreal or metaphysical experiences from. Feeling a little duped, I logged into a game of mini-golf: mindless, and a time-killer, it would let time pass and so let me unwind.

I took a healthy belt of drink Number Two, and proceeded to play said mini-golf game. I had reached the third hole of the game, felt a fit of pique, and backed another healthy belt of my custom-blended beverage.

Another two holes, and it hit me.

I experienced a clarity of thought, a near-alarming self-insight, that was startling in it's intensity. It was as if a door of some sort had opened in my mind, and I could 'see' clearly, as I could never see before. It didn't matter what arena or subject I put my head to, I saw things from a wholly different perspective.

I stood from my post in from of the computer, and noticed an odd tingling running down my legs, something reminiscent of a tequila-drunk of yore. I wanted a cigarette, which stood to reason as I would often smoke more when under the influence of alcohol. Marvelling at the movement of my legs, I descended the seven stairs to the front foyer, and exited the front door.

Decimated hedges, and struggling flower beds, greeted my eyes in the dull of night. I could easily picture what I wanted to see in a few months time from them, as if transported to a future time. As I plunked my bulk down to light a cigarette, I became aware of a transient lidocaine-like feeling through my lips and face.... it wasn't scary, but it did make me wonder. I had brought that second drink with me, having added more ice to it's contents: it was sort of like a licorice-tasting water, very refreshing, and oddly not an imposition on my sensitive guts and reactivity to things alcoholic.

I lit a cigarette, oddly aware of my surroundings: it was as if they could speak to me, but not on a level that could be heard by human ears. That disconcerted me, so I turned my thoughts to another topic. I reflected on my marriage of more than 25 years, where it had taken me, what I had learned (sometimes it took a sledge hammer for me to get the message, I admit that in all candor), why it might have been NECESSARY for some of those experiences to have occurred. The reality of just how much I love that man, and why, was so intense it almost hurt. I reflected, too, upon Estate matters.... o my gosh, that's a very very long tale, but one that, upon reflection, I felt damned good about. I may be a 'bull in a china shop' when it comes to social proprieties, but I'll stand on my track record: it's pretty damned skookum.

I finished that drink, having decamped for the relative safety of the living room and my stereo. A legacy from my father, I have a love of music that defies a definition, and I got lost in guitar acoustics while listening to a Classic Rock Station.

The Hubster came out to inquire of me and my well being.... and what can I say, I was my usual blunt self: ...“ I'm enjoying the difference of perception, and the half-twiddled state that goes with it”. He gave a half-chuckle, and went back to his project-at-hand. I finished that second drink, amazed by the difference in how I perceived the world around me, let alone the people-politics I lived with. Similar to a tequila-drunk, my head was perfectly funtional: in truth, it was so clear in it's perceptions as to be unsettling. My mouth seemed reasonably cooperative, I wasn't slurring my words, albeit I was choosing them very carefully. That lidocaine-like buzz had become transient in both my legs AND my lips.... yet it still didn't put me off or in any way alarm me.

It was bedtime, by now, and I'm a notoriously early-retirer, because I prefer to be up before 0600h as a rule (blame my daughter for that one: she insisted on getting up at 0500h for the first 2 and a half years of her life).... I knew that booze and head-spins are a common occurence with me, and so I was apprehensive as I commanded my now-twiddled being to lumber for the master bedroom and the sanctity of my bed. My head seemed to be functioning on a level removed from my body, and any circumstance I chose to reflect upon left me feeling unsettled: I needed to get away from that, I didn't feel strong enough to endure any resulting epiphanies. T he human ego isn't as tough as some would like to make it out to be, and this was bordering on overload: mistakes and choices of the past came back at me like ghosts and haunted my consciousness.

The sanctity of my bed was found, along with a new determination: I was going to further explore this 'mythical' substance, but I was going to give myself a few days to process and digest the perceptual differences I'd experienced.

I'd also realized that anyone with a penchant for booze would find this stuff “too easy”, and would likely be poor candidates for the “insights” I'd gleaned from my first experience with absinthe. Most booze-hounds drink for a reason, and I could see absinthe opening doors and trains of thought that really need the input of a therapist and not the under-the-influence self! That it seemed to be too easy too drink when 'built' the way that I 'built' a drink of the stuff, and could give the same booze-high as more than twice the same amount of hard spirits, colored it as dangerous to anyone with a taste for booze. Sleep came quickly, easily, without my guts rousting me in the dead of night for relief.

Mich found herself a new bad habit.

I LIKE that sh*t. I like that it doesn't upset my guts in the same way that mixed drinks can, that it lets me 'see' things from a different perspective. I have yet to suffer a hang-over from it, but that may be in part because of how I “prepare” a drink of the stuff. Yes, it's expensive, yes, it's “TOO EASY”.... but I like it. I really, really like it.

Mich's Mumbles © 2011

The Great absinthe experiment: Part II, "Here we go"

I did a lot of experimenting, by the time I was 21, and had 'written off' most of what I'd tried. For whatever reason, the only illegal thing that held any appeal was pot. Anything chemical simply wasn't up my alley, and was just a waste of time, money, and opportunity. A typical redneck, I love my beer, and can do some serious damage to a bottle of single-male scotch, but I'm not really a drinker (I think I mentioned, previously, that I get hung-over at the drop of a hat?). For the most part, I outgrew that wild side and became a semblance of a responsible adult.

I'd spent more than 20 years dabbling and researching folk medicine and herb lore; I'd learned to garden and could brag quite the 'tea patch'. Food can be medicine, I'd learned, and I wielded it at every opportunity. The computer age merely saw my research efforts get easier, because I wasn't obligated to regular trips to the library any more. And yet that curiosity about salvia, and absinthe, lingered.... wasn't I getting too old for that sort of crap? A forty-five year old, experimenting?

I found myself, one Saturday night, face to face with a bottle of absinthe.... the time had finally arrived that I could try this mythical liquor., a birthday gift from The Hubster. Our daughter was away for the night, we were home alone together goofing off: it seemed wisest to 'dabble' when we were home alone. The gold label affixed a clear bottle of lime-jello-colored liquid gave the bottle the appearance of a perfume.; one whiff, however made sure that notion was quickly dispelled.

The bottle had come with sugar cubes, a glass, and a special spoon.... I'd read what to do with all of that, and went about following the instructions to fix myself a 'shnort. I used a shot-glass to measure out 2 ounces. I set the slotted spoon across the top of the glass, set 2 sugar-cubes atop it, and slowly poured the absinthe over the sugar cubes and into the glass. Using a lighter, I light the sugar cubes afire, until they caramelized; 2 ounces of water was then poured over the caramelized sugar cubes and into the glass.

OK, I was ready... and promptly burnt my lips when I attempted to sip from the glass: the top of it was blazing hot from the blue-flame act I'd performed caramelizing the sugar cubes. That obligated me to wait a few minutes for the top of the glass to cool, I admit I was little annoyed at myself for not seeing that happenstance in advance. After distracting myself in the kitchen for a bit, I returned to the now-cooled glass, and nonchalantly tossed a mouthful back.

Yuck. Warm booze, with a bite to it (and a healthy bite, I may add). The licorice flavor was kind of nice, but my toes and guts were on fire, my mouth felt like I'd gargled with isopropyl alcohol, and there was something about the temperature that was just, well, WRONG. That may be the 'traditional way' of fixing a drink of absinthe, but no one has ever used the word “traditional” where I'm concerned: tradition wasn't going to limit my experiment so quickly. I tossed a few ice cubes into the glass, put it into the freezer, and went off to occupy myself for an hour. My reasoning was that maybe it was like crappy scotch: enough water and ice, and you can choke it down. I just knew I wasn't wasting booze and pouring it out, and certainly not a birthday present from my husband.

A while later, I retrieved the drink from the freezer, and took a sip of it. OK, not so much of a bite, but wowsers, was that bitter. Adding more table sugar made it palatable. The licorice flavor was actually nice, not quite as 'in your face' as say, sambuca or ouzo. And despite all that I'd read and seen, the liquor didn't turn cloudy when water was added: it remained clear. I took another, bigger swig from the glass, and the water-like liquid was easily swallowed .... it was sort of like a licorice-tasting water, really, and quite refreshing. Arguing with myself that it was in the name of knowledge, I made short work of that drink, and consumed it in less than a half an hour.

I sat down to await the effects of the absinthe, wondering what descriptions like “mild psychelic properties” and “lucid drunk” translated to, as regards my impending experiences(s). Forty minutes later, I detected a glow that I recognized as the effects of 3 ceasar drinks: I had a buzz on, but nada as regards psychedelic experiences, or any cerebral effects. It was a decent buzz, I most definitely had a glow on, but nothing a half-sack of beer couldn't produce over a few hours of good convo.

Well, I was home alone with my hubby, and if I wound up hungover, I deserved it. I went back to the kitchen, measured out another 2 ounces of absinthe, added a tablespoon of sugar, added 4 oz of water and a few ice cubes.... and sat down at my computer.

END PART TWO
Mich's Mumbles © 2011

The Great absinthe experiment: part one "The Lead Up"

I've never made excuses for my innate curiosities as regards the metaphysical. The things and experiences that defy scientific explanation intrigue me, as do those that involve the use of substances to achieve transcendence.

I'm what could be called “a dabbler” when it comes to using various natural means to alter my head-space.

Cigarettes were my first introduction to an altered head-space, my Dad's one sister 'nicking smokes from her mom (my grandmother.... we're less than 3 years apart in age, me and that one aunt), Cameo menthols.... and discovering a head rush. I soon sought it out on my own, my Dad and Mom both smoked in those days and were easy to 'pinch' from. That habit, unfortunately, remains with me to this day, but I'm considered a “part time” smoker: I rarely if ever smoke outside of my property boundaries (and never in the house).

Three years later, the result of friends with older siblings and a return to living in the city, it was pot. Holy cow, I'd found my calling: when I smoked the stuff, I shut up, and became focused like a laser beam. I had patience that I didn't normally have, and an odd wisdom about keeping my damned mouth shut. By the time I was 16, I'd learned that not having it around for any length of time was detrimental to me: somehow, I was 'wired differently', and what would normally f**k a person up and turn them into a zombie of sorts would leave me in a state of “normal”. Going without for more than a few days saw me snap off at anyone and anything, and viciously, at that. My family paid for that bit of self-insight, and in some really nasty ways: I was one angry teenager at points, and I did more to hurt my parents in the space of a year than most do in a lifetime (and I'm still apologizing for it, more than 30 years later).

Pot wasn't acceptable, it was illegal... and I had my first real drunk when I was 16: a dare saw me down 1/2 of a 40 oz bottle of Canadian Club whiskey. HOLY DRUNK MUCH, and with the likelihood of alcohol poisoning, I found myself very ill and at school the next day. That my Dad's sense of humor saw me served half-cooked bacon and greasy eggs for breakie the next morning taught me a few lessons: I've filed that bit of treachery for future use, believe me.

I didn't like Acid. Speed, o jeez, that's just a disaster looking for a place to happen: I am not the kind of person that does well “amplified”. Cocaine was a real treat, but it scared the Hell out of me: the addiction risk put it in the same category as Valium (which I'd also tried, and found I liked), and so while it and benzodiazapine-family drugs suited me, I avoided them.

Mushrooms, and tequila.... holy cow, each a unique trip. I didn't like mushrooms, I felt out of control, and there was always a lingering fear that the harvester had mis-identified the fungi I'd just ingested.

Tequila did something really odd to me: I was fully functional, physically, and mentally sharp.... but could not speak without sounding like a cerebral palsy sufferer. I could pursue almost any project or effort while 'cut' on tequila, but talking to me was a total waste of time and netted you indecipherable responses.

There was two things on my “list” of “wanting to try”, when I turned 45. I had yet to try salvia divinorum, and I had yet to meet up with a bottle of absinthe. I'd spent time researching both substances, curious about their history, their uses, what made them sought out....

Because I live in Canada, absinthe is easily sourced: it's not illegal here. Because it can be found in a liquor store, my partner was okay with the idea: to him, was just over-proof booze made from something that doesn't grow here. I'd read about famous people like Oscar Wilde and their experiences with absinthe; I was damned leery of the potential hangover, I tend to be a lousy drunk for that very reason: I pay for it, I get hung-over at the drop of a hat.

He bought me a bottle of absinthe for my birthday, and the box even had the spoon, glass, and sugar cubes in it. At 70% alcohol (140 proof), and with supposed psychedelic properties (short-lived, the research had said), the bright green liquid reminded me of a bottle of vodka someone had dripped green food coloring into: it was the same consistency, to my eye. I knew it was supposed licorice in flavor.... I like licorice, just not in quantity.

Our daughter was going to be away for a night over the upcoming weekend, and that was when I decided to open that bottle of absinthe.

END OF PART 1

Mich's Mumbles © 2011

A birthday gift of legacy

Family history has always intrigued me, perhaps because there's some of it that is known but never spoken about. One branch of my family has been in North America since the 1600's, and a line of it has been verifiably traced back to that time.

That line of the family was 'seen to' by the girls: it's history was passed on from Mother to Daughter, Grandmother to Granddaughter, sometimes across the stretch of decades. Some of the lore is absolutely mind-blowing, and one has to wonder just how much of it has been 'embroidered' by the retelling.

With my 45^th birthday drawing near, my parents found reason to drop by over the weekend. My Mother handed me a plastic bag, inside of which appeared to be a very faded linen tea towel... and a hand-written note on yellow-aged paper affront it. That hand-writing was oddly familiar to me, and I took off my glasses to get a better read of it.

The hand-writing was that of my one great grandmother, the only one that I had known any well, my Dad's grandmother on his Mom's side.

Lora Mulvihill was born in 1900, in Oklahoma, and married to the son of Irish immigrants; they'd found themselves in Western Canada by the time WW1 started. She'd been alive when I was growing up, passing away in 1977. My birth had been something of an occasion for the woman, I have a hand-written note from her in my baby book: she'd sent a $20 bill with the note, and that was a LOT of money in those days.

Her hand-writing was in front of me again, decades after her death. She makes reference to “Jimmie”, which is how my Dad is called by his family (no one else would dare): he's the oldest of her 8 grandchildren.

The note reads as follows:

Great Great Grandma Smith was born July 31 – 1841.

This belonged to Jimmies Great Great Grandma Smith.

I have had it since 1927

See how many generations it will still be in use

Grandma Mulvihill

It is a linen tea towel, that appears to have once been pink and white striped. Each “stripe” was hand-tatted in, the lace trim is hand-tatted linen thread. My great-grandmother had sent it to my Mother when I was born, and without a word, my Mother had kept it, through 15 moves that included different provinces.

I have a small piece of the family history, a legacy, sitting on my desk today. It's more than a birthday gift, it's something of a wonder: Grandma Smith and family lived through the Civil War. The family lore claims she lived til the age of 99, and a picture of her exists from the 30's: records indicate that to be a truth. It's likely that the lady made it with her own hands, with purchased material: it indicates a certain degree of financial comfort in her world. That it's been handed on as it has been also speaks to it's quality.

My birthday present was a gift of legacy, from a woman I have never met, and only vaguely knew by name as being a long-living relative; she missed my fathers' birth by a matter of months.

Why such a thing would bring about such sentimentality in me is also a wonder. I'm humbled, and admit that my Mother keeping mum about it for 45 years is a little disconcerting, too: I wonder how many other such 'secrets' she's keeping.

As a birthday gift, it's more than oddly important to me, it's priceless. I am now the fifth generation to be in possession of it, and that's really neat.

Mich's Mumbles © 2011

A redneck view on Immigration in Canada

Western Europe countries have adopted “zero immigration” policies, and I think it's too bad that Canada can't do the same thing.

Now, before you criticize and condemn, stop and think a minute about the freedom you're about to exercise.... and let me admit that I had dual citizenship with a Scandinavian country until the age of 21.

Canada is a great and generous country; many ethnicities call Canada “home”. There are a few difficulties that need to be addressed, however. While I'm likely to be labelled a racist, I really don't care: a perpetual victim of reverse discrimination, I'm tired of MY opinion “not counting” because I'm white and speak without an accent. I'm also the child of an immigrant, one that grew up before the advent of ESL and other integrational tools.

Ethnic and special interest groups have become so focused upon their own needs, they've become selfish and inconsiderate of those around them. A long-time Canadian tradition, the RCMP, has had to amend their dress code to accommodate turban-wearing Sikhs. What's next, ceremonial daggers and curly-toed shoes? Immigration involves integration and assimilation, not take-over, change-to-suit, and/or alter. Freedom of religion is a noble thing, but I draw the line when the fragile tapestry of Canadian heritage is violated to accommodate a select few. Just because your religious choice requires a specific form of dress does NOT give you the right to change a century-old tradition, and thus alter the symbolism of our not-so-distant past. Historically speaking, it's an affront.

I'm tired of people and signs that don't communicate in either of Canada's national languages: I'm capable in both. I'm discriminated against every time I encounter signage that is not in one of those two languages. Tax monies fund English as a Second Language (ESL) programs, and yet the recipients don't speak English when out and about in public. Various ethnic groups have been linked to purchasing drivers' licences, drug importation, gang activity, and other VERY negative things. Until such issues are settled effectively, is it fair to the rest of Canadian society yo continue to allow people access to our great country, when it's already embroiled in difficulties with it's CURRENT population?

Immigration has allowed almost EVERY Canadian to live in our great country --- some, centuries ago, some but a month ago. We don't want to be intolerant, but your ethnicity or religion does NOT mean you can cry 'discrimination' if you don't get the job you applied for, that you can say you're 'entitled' to ANYTHING: EARN the right, don't TAKE it, BE CANADIAN and WORK for what you want, don't expect to be given it.

We've a lot of work to do to sort out our differences. We need to learn a lot more consideration, too.

Please, let us do just that. Don't add any more wood to the fire until we've learned better management of the fireplace: we're getting burned. Please, don't let any more people into Canada. There's too many struggling to survive here already, and that 'melting pot' isn't blending very well. We've a lot of issues and problems to contend with, as it is.

No more immigration. Please.

For Canada's sake.

Mich's Mumbles © 2011